Captain America Noir
by Jack Borroughs
Summary: In a world where Project Rebirth never existed, Steve Rogers walked a different path in life. In 1954, Det. Sgt. Steve Rogers finds himself in a world of woes following the death of his wartime commanding officer.
1. Prologue

IT WAS ABOUT ELEVEN O'CLOCK in the evening, mid October, when the 1940 Ford pulled up in front of the mansion in Westchester. The driver turned off the engine and stepped out. He was tall, though thin. He wore a navy blue suit, a white shirt and a white pencil-stripped red tie, a black hat that covered a head of blond hair, and a tan rain coat. He rang the doorbell and waited till the butler came answering.

"How may I help you?" said the butler with all the requisite rigid dignity.

"I'm here to see the General, he's expecting me."

"Who might I tell him it is?"

"Steve Rogers."

"Of course, sir. Would you like to wait inside?"

"Thank you."

Rogers followed the butler inside. He took off his coat and hat and handed them to the butler as he stood in the hallway.

"I'll be right with you." Said the butler. Rogers didn't respond as he was busy eying the Philips family crest that hung over the fireplace, and then shifting his eyes toward the pictures that surrounded it. One depicted the master of the house in a the company of his battalion command during the first world war, while another depicted him standing shoulder to shoulder with the top brass of the allied armed forces, between Bradley and LeClerc.

Rogers stood in his place for a few minutes before the butler returned.

"The General will meet you in the study, sir."

* * *

General Chester Phillips sat by the window, listening to a Vera Lynn record and looking into space. Rogers immediately saw that the years had not been kind. Age and illness had left their marks on him, shedding his hair, withering his bones, curving his spine and spotting his skin. He wore a large dark robe than engulfed him, though his bony legs peered from beneath them, and a cane rested by the wall, giving a clear indication to his current state of health.

"General Philips." Said Rogers, offering a salute.

"Now now, we're a bit beyond that." Said Philips with a warm smile as he took notice of the young officer he'd commanded years ago.

"How are you feeling, sir?"

"Not too well, Captain Rogers." Said Rogers, "Though a glass of brandy might help with that for a bit. Say, you wouldn't mind-?"

"Not at all." Said Rogers.

"Good man, the bar's over there."

Rogers went to the corner of the room that Phillips had indicated with a claw like finger.

"Pour yourself a glass as well."

"Third of a glass of champagne with your bourbon?"

"Yes. Thank you, Captain?"

"I haven't been a Captain in years, sir. Civilian life has busted me down to a lowly sergeant."

"Yes, I'd heard that." Said Chester.

"Have you?" asked Rogers, returning with a glass of Brandy and Champagne for Philips and a glass of Bourbon for himself.

"I get a few visitors from the service every now and then, some like to keep track of everyone else. I must say, I'd either figured you'd remain with the Army or return to your artistic pursuits, I'd never thought you'd make a foray into law enforcement.

"Have a seat, Rogers, and tell me how has life been treating you?"

"Not much to tell, really. After I was discharged, I got back to Brooklyn and started looking for work. Lots of people were offering, but Joey Castle, you know him, he was in Japan, suggested we try the force. I made homicide detective in '50 and sergeant in last year."

"Have you married?"

"I haven't. I got close a couple of years back, but we broke it off. She's married to an add firm executive in Manhattan, I think."

"You should see that you are, and soon. You don't want to end up an old man in an old family mansion. Do you see any of the men?"

"At reunions, sure. There's a reunion coming up. I'll sometime see someone from the Hundred and first across the street waiting for a bus, or I'll be conducting an investigation in a club and one of the band would be someone I knew who was in the Ninety second, but I hardly ever make a thing of it if they don't. It's strange, you know. Sometime I'll arrest someone and bring them to the station, and as I'm taking them down to the cages, they'll come across someone and their bodies'll tense up. They don't say anything, but you can tell they have history. That's how It feels, like we want to talk, but we can't cause neither of us is really the person the other recognize, and that person is someone that was left long ago, standing in a battlefield."

The general offered a smile, and Rogers felt somewhat embarrassed by what he imagined must have been the general's impression of his words. Hastily, he wanted to change the subject.

"Why have you called me here, general?"

"I am dying, Captain Rogers." Said Phillips, "I have months to live and my affairs to wrap up. I have a favor to ask you, and it is something that can be handled by a man of your expertise, a thing that I can hire someone to see after, but would appreciate if it was done by someone I trusted."

For the next fifteen minutes, the general relayed his instructions, speaking as clearly and exhaustively as he did during the war. The request was then forgotten, and the men spoke some more of the former officer's life, and of the current political climate. They had one more drink each, before the butler entered the study to remind the general it was time for him to take his medication. Rogers excused himself, and the general did not try to keep him.

On the next day at around the time Rogers' shift at the precinct would end, he learned that the General had passed away in his sleep the night before.

* * *

Yes, I was ripping off the big sleep in this chapter :)

R&R.


	2. The Colonel

**September 1941**

New York City

"Kid, listen to what I'm telling you." Said the Captain sitting at the desk of the recruitment office, "You failed the physical. You Are. Unfit. To Serve. You're 4F, that means you stay here."

The young, lanky man leaned on the captain's desk.

"You mean here with the dames, while everyone my age goes and fights and dies in my place?"

"You're talking way too soon, kid. We ain't at war with the Germans or the Japs. Not yet. We might never be."

"You know that's not gonna hold up forever. There must be something I could do. I could be a medic. I could train as a... As a mechanic or anything!"

The captain sighed and bowed his head, then leaned back in his chair and looked straight into the eye of the passionate volunteer.

"Look, kid, your heart is in the right place. Twenty-five years ago, I was standing where you are right now, wanting to do my part. I hear you, I really do. But the bottom line is that we can't use you. You'd be a liability. To put it as clearly as possible, your existence in a theater of war endangers lives. You would be absolutely no help. You getting into the United States Marine Corps does no one good but letting you trying to play hero. You can try the army, or the national guard. But show up here again and waste my time, and I won't be as gracious."

* * *

**November 1954**

Virginia

It was a few days later, when Steve Rogers walked out the gates of Arlington National cemetery. He had buried his hands in the pockets of his dark coats, and was deep in thought when he heard the call.

"Rogers."

The retired Captain stopped in his tracks, waiting to recall why the voice sounded so familiar, before turning around.

"Hello, Captain."

The man who spoke the words was smoking a cigar, leaning against a black top model Lincoln some twenty feet away parked by the curb. He was tall and as well built as an athlete, almost dwarfing Roger, who was no short man himself. He was in his late thirties, though gray hair and begun to streak his temples, a product of a life of hard living and hard play. He wore a dark coat over a navy blue business suit.

"It's Nick. Nick Fury." Said the man, facing Rogers and walking closer to him, allowing Rogers to spot a black eye patch over his right eye.

"I know it's you, Sergeant. It's been a long time." Said Roger, recognizing the stranger, "I didn't see you in there."

"I wasn't." said Fury as he took a puff of his cigar, "I got held up, couldn't make it."

"Who's that in the car?"

A man stepped out. He was dressed similarly to Fury, though he was larger, older, had a head of thinning red hair, a thick moustache and wore a bowler hat.

"Steve." He said. Rogers nodded with a smile.

"I see you're still stringing poor Dugan around. Haven't you learned better by now, Dum-Dum?"

Fury chuckled, took a final drag of his cigar before dropping it and stomping it.

"What say we warhorses go find ourselves a bar?"

"Sergeant to Colonel in ten years." Rogers said, nursing a cold beer as he sat opposite to Fury at a table in the bar which was mostly empty at that time of day, "How did you manage that?"

"It's not that impressive, besides, it was _Staff_ Sergeant to _Lieutenant_ Colonel."

"Well, when you put it that way." Said Rogers, than gestured toward his own eye, "How about the…?"

"Chosin Reservoir. Chinese sniper. My last purple heart."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"How are the rest of the Howlers?"

"Uh, Pinky's opened up a club in London. Reb's a lawyer in Texas. I haven't heard from Koenig in years, but he was a working in the West Berlin Police last I heard.

"Actually, I hear you're in that line of work yourself."

"That's right; I'm a Homicide Detective Sergeant. I'd tell you the number on my shield, but I suppose you already know it, working for the CIA and all."

"Oh, so I don't know more about you than you do about me after all, huh?" said Fury with a smirk as he took a gulp of his Whiskey.

"How was the General?" he asked, "I didn't see him since he retired, shortly before 'Rea."

"I saw him the night before he passed. He looked as good as he could look, considering."

"What did you talk about?"

"This and that. He just wanted to reminisce."

"Are you heading back to New York right away?"

"I am, but not for long. I'm getting on an airplane to England. I should get going, actually." Rogers said as he put on his hat and stepped up from the table, reaching for his wallet before Fury stopped him.

"My treat, Cap. Are you going on Business?"

"No, I've just decided to take some time off. Say, what's the name of Pinky's club? Might drop by and give him a visit."

"Blades. It's on Greek Street. Give him my regards."

"It's been good seeing you, _Colonel_. Maybe I'll see you at the Able Company reunion coming up." Said Rogers as he walked away.

"I'll check my calendar." Said Fury as he gulped the rest of his drink.

As Rogers steppeded out the door. He found Fury catching up to him.

"Steve, a second."

"What is it?"

"Are you really going to London as a visit, or are you planning on looking for her?"

"Who?"

"You know who. I'm talking about Peggy."

"Well, Nick, I'm not going to London to look for anyone. I'm going to London to look at the sights and unwind."

"Well, that's all well and good. I'm not telling you this as a... Anything, but a friend, but if you go digging for something that's not there, you'll just drive yourself, crazy. It damn well drove me crazy."

"Well, as I said, I'm not going over there to look for anyone." Said Rogers, raising his arm to hail a cab that promptly came to a halt.

"I'll see you when I see you, Nick."

**R&R.**


	3. Jenny Riley and Battlin' Jack

Hello all. I'm sorry for the delay, but while writing this chapter weeks ago, I came to learn that the plot I had in mind was all too similar to that of a comic book miniseries from DC/Wildstorm. I've since found a new direction that is more suitable for a story about Cap, in this genre and in this setting. Until I've completely plotted the events to come, though, there might be some changes in these three chapters.

* * *

**December 1954**

**New York City**

It was nearing eleven in the evening when Sergeant Rogers' car pulled up to the apartment building. He'd only flown back from England a few days ago and it was his first day back on the job and his first call since. The apartment building in question was on the verge of qualifying as a slum, in a state of habitable disrepair. It was surrounded by a front yard, mostly barren, though it looked like someone had been making an effort to improve it recently. A few policemen were standing about, guarding the gates to the yard and the front door of the building itself. One policeman, an Officer Joe Castiglione, a man with a powerful frame and age close to that of the sergeant, walked up to Rogers as he stepped out of the car, holding a revolver of impressive size by the barrel.

"We found the murder weapon, cap."

"Where?"

"Over there, in the grass."

"Tell me about the victim."

"Her name's Jenny Riley, age twenty-three. She was from out of state, here for college."

"Any witnesses?"

"None. The building's only two thirds full, mostly old folk who keep to themselves. They heard the gunshot forty minutes ago."

Rogers and Castiglione went into the building and up creaking stairs, reaching their destination on the fifth floor. The victim's apartment reflected its previous tenants financial state; though small, it still seemed empty, furnished with only the barest of necessities.

"Hopin' you don't mind, cap." Said Officer Castiglione as he took out a flask from his jacket.

Rogers merely gave him a nod as he stood in the doorway of the bedroom, scanning the crime scene. The victim was of short stature and had shoulder length, thick blond hair. She wore satin gloves, a black dress and stockings, but no shoes. Her lifeless body lay on the floor, face down in a puddle of her own blood.

The window was wide open, and an unrelenting cold wind blew the curtains inward.

"Was the window open?" asked Rogers.

"Wouldn't open it ourselves on a night like this." Said Castiglione.

Castiglione watched as Sergeant Rogers stepped to the room's lone window, took a peak out of it, examining for a second, and then pulled the shutters together and fastening them with the elastic string that hung from a nail at the top of the window frame. The beat cop smiled with satisfaction as the room grew less frigid.

"Good ol' cap."

"Why do you call him that?" said George Stacy, Castiglione's rookie partner who'd left the academy only months earlier.

"What?"

"Sergeant Rogers. Why do you call him Captain?"

"You're kidding, ain'tcha?" said Castiglione incredulously, gestured at Rogers as he examined the body more closely, "You don't know who that man is? Captain Steve Rogers, the Army Ranger?"

"Oh, you were together in the service?"

"There's a bit more to it than that. The man's a hero, he won the Medal of Honor. You go to Brooklyn, and find someone who doesn't know the house where he grew up, and I'll buy you beers for a month."

"Alright, alright. Jesus."

"Watch that mouth, Stacy." Said Rogers suddenly, and Castiglione chuckled.

"No witnesses at all?"

"Nothin'. Floor's mostly unoccupied, 'ceptin' the old couple living down the hall who don't hear too good."

"What about the superintendent?"

"Yeah." Said Castiglione, then turned to Stacy, "Go get the super."

Stacy did as his senior ordered and came back a few minutes later with the super, a man of a few years beyond middle age and slight build.

"This here's Mr. Leiber."

"What can I do for you, detective?" said Leiber with a meek voice.

"What can you tell me about Miss Riley."

"Oh, she was a nice girl. A real sweatheart." Said Leiber, "A bit too sweet for her own good, maybe. She was late with her rent every now and then, but not recently, and never without some reason."

"Were there any men in her life?"

"I'm not sure. I don't like to impose on any of my tenants, especially the ones who aren't any trouble. There was this one man, he had an Irish kinda name, though so did she so maybe they were related."

"Can't you remember what his name was exactly?"

"I don't know. Something that started with an M, an R somewhere in the middle."

"Like Murphy? Morrigan?"

"I couldn't tell you for sure."

"What'd he look like?"

"Kinda tall. Heavy. Muscle heavy. Not much of a smiler."

"How old was he?"

"Late thirties. Forty, maybe."

"Thanks Mr. Leiber. That'll be all for now."

"Listen, how long do you think you boys'll be here?"

"What's the matter, pops?" asked Castiglione, "You don't like us cops?"

"It's not that, it's just…"

"Leave the man alone, Joey." Said Rogers, "I don't think we need to be here for long, Mr. Leiber. You can go ahead and sit down for a while and the boys'll let you know when we're through here."

As soon as Leiber had left, Rogers asked Stacy.

"Is the wagon here, yet?"

"They said they were tied up elsewhere."

"Did you find anything else in the yard? Anything at all?"

"I found a paperweight." Castiglione said, "A coupla bananas that's been tied together, too. What's on your mind, cap?"

"This picture was on her nightstand." Rogers said as I held up a framed picture of Jenny Riley and a strapping man with his arm around her shoulders, "Mr. M, I assume. There are a couple other pictures of him that I found. Balled up in the bottom of the trash."

"Man looks familiar." Said Castiglione, "So he left her, or she left him? And he killed her?"

"I don't think so. I don't think this is a murder." Said Rogers, "I think this man, whoever he is, either hurt her in some way or broke it off. She took it bad. Decided to end it all. Only she wasn't going quietly, so she staged her suicide to look like a murder."

"…This is a suicide?"

"That stuff in the garden? She was practicing, she'd tie them to that string tied to the window frame and fray the loop a bit. She'd pull it all the way in and let it go, once it stretched out the window, the loop'd break and whatever it was tied around would fall to the garden. She did the same with that Roscoe you found, it belonged to Mr. M, I'm sure."

"That's one hell of a theory, Sarge. I mean, no disrespect and all." Said Officer Stacy.

"A theory is all it is, George. Mr. M deserves a look, too. Anyway, we're done here."

"Whatever you say, Cap." Said Castiglione, "I'll go see about the wagon."

"I'll take care of that. You two can go ahead and go home. I know your shift ended minutes ago."

"So'd yours. Besides, ain't tonight your Army reunion?"

"No." said Rogers, donning his coat and hat, "That's tomorrow. Go on ahead."

"You sure? I could stick around. We both could."

"No. You should go home to Maria and little Frank."

"Alright, if you're sure." Said Castiglione as he and Stacy headed for the door, "Goodnight, cap."

* * *

**Two Days Later**

Colonel Fury stood in the doorway of Sergeant Rogers' office, looking at his wartime superior officer as he slumped in his chair behind his desk, which was turned slightly with its back to the door, utterly exhausted and stealing away some sleep.

"You looked like you must have had one hell of a night."

Fury's words were enough to rouse Rogers, who opened his eyes and leaned out of his chair to look back and see his unexpected visitor.

"Nick, uh.." said Rogers groggily as he got up, "This is a nice surprise. I thought I was going to have to wait for another funeral before I ever saw you again."

"All you had to do was show up that night."

"Sorry?"

"The Company reunion?" Fury said, "Don't tell me you actually forgot."

"Eh. Not exactly, I got the dates mixed up. I thought it was tonight. God, this is awful."

"Well, there's another next year, so no worries."

"You actually showed up?"

"Yeah. I felt like seeing some old faces."

"Well, have a seat." Said Rogers as he walked to the door, "Some coffee?"

"Sure."

Fury sat as the detective peered out of his door and asked the passing secretary to prepare two cups of coffee.

"So, what did I miss?" asked Rogers, sitting back behind his desk.

"Oh, I don't know about the other reunions. Lots of remember-whens and things like that, can't say I didn't enjoy it. Rebel showed up, he's running for congress, he sends his regards, though I have to say I was a lot more surprised when Pinky dropped in half-way through. Apparently your visit left him pretty nostalgic."

"Are they still in town?"

"Rebel's already flown back to Texas, Pinky's doing some business for a few days. We made a deal, actually, we're going to have our own Howlers Reunion in Berlin in the Summer. That way we can all finally see Eric again. You're welcome to come if you like."

"One trip to Europe is all I can afford this year."

"Hell, Steve, I'll fly you with me and Dum-Dum."

"You could do that?"

"Benefits of the job."

"Well in that case, count me in."

At that moment, the secretary walked in, carrying a tray with two mugs of black coffee upon it.

"Thanks, Dolores."

"There's a gentleman from the organized crime division to see you, Sarge. A Lieutenant Wolf."

"Send him in." said Rogers, taking a sip of his coffee. He then placed the mug down, straightened his shirt and adjusted his tie, speaking to Fury, "This'll just take a couple of minutes."

Lieutenant Wolf soon walked in. He was a tall man, with hardened features and graying hair.

"Sergeant Rogers." Said Wolf, extending his hand, "Robert Wolf. Organized Crime Division. It's an honor to meet you."

The two men shook hands.

"Have a seat, Lieutenant. What can I do for you?"

"I heard about the murder you had last night." Said Wolf as he sat down nearby Fury, who remained silent.

"You OCD boys work fast." Said Rogers, taking a sip of his coffee, "It wasn't a murder, the ME report corroborated that the wound was self inflicted."

"You're sure about that?"

"It was a big gun, she was a little girl with no idea on how to use one. The angle and the damage to her wrist is plenty of evidence, then there's residue on the gloves she wore. I do wonder what the organized crime division's interest is."

"It has come to our attention that the deceased was in a relationship with one Mr. Jack Murdock, a Hell's Kitchen prize fighter."

"And?"

"Mr. Murdock is a suspected enforcer of Patrick Nesbitt."

"'Pops' Nesbitt? The racketeer?" Fury interjected.

"I'm sorry." Said Wolf, turning his attention to the Colonel, "I didn't catch your name."

"Lieutenant Colonel Nick Fury, DOD. I'm from Hell's Kitchen myself."

"Well, Colonel, you are correct. Incidentally, this is strictly NYPD business, so if you could…"

"Oh, sure. I never like to be a nuisance." Said Fury, but made no attempt to leave. Rogers stifled a chuckle as his one time NCO cracked his fingers as he had done once during the war, right before knocking a Gestapo Major out cold.

"Thanks, Nick. You could wait outside." Said Rogers, "Tell Dolores to make you another cop of joe, if you like."

This time Fury complied. As soon as the door was closed, Wolf resumed the conversation.

"As your friend was saying, Patrick 'Pops' Nesbitt is a major figure in the Irish mob. He's suspected in running numbers, extortion, even women and narcotics. Jack Murdock is one of his enforcers, though smart enough not to ever get caught red handed. With proper leverage, we could gain a valuable resource that could lead to an eventual arrest of Nesbitt and the dismantling of his organization."

"I get what you're saying. I wish I could help you, but Jenny Riley wasn't murdered. She committed suicide. Jack Murdock didn't murder her."

"Maybe." said Wolf, "Maybe not. All I'm saying is that its pre-mature to rule out the possibility."

Rogers' patience was beginning to ware thin.

"Jack Murdock won a fight by count out in the fifth round on the night of the murder. Assuming you discount the trainer's testimony that Murdock was there the exact time the murder occurred. The bout started only twenty minutes after the gunshots were heard, not enough time for to have killed her and make it to the fight in time."

Wolf said nothing for a few seconds and simply glared, he then curled his lip and said,

"I could probably find something on the trainer. I could even find a possible route given last night's traffic conditions that'd take twenty minutes from the victim's apartment to the ring. I don't want to see Murdock behind bars, he's no use for me there, so the end result is all the same, only this time we put away a violent criminal."

"Blackmail. That's how you do it in OCD?"

"You think of a better way, tell me."

"I'm sure hiring real police would work wonders."

"Excuse me, sergeant?"

"Maybe Jack Murdock works for Nesbitt. Maybe he doesn't. If he commits a murder in my jurisdiction, I'll raise all kind of hell to see he'll go down hard. Until then, he's clean.

"You want Nesbitt? You do what it takes to get him, but you do not pin the blame for some poor girl's death on Murdock just so you could get at someone else. He doesn't deserve it, and neither does Jenny Riley."

Wolf glared at Rogers for a moment before getting up and putting his hat back on. As he stood by the door, he looked back at Rogers, and as he turned the knob, he remakred him,

"You just don't get it, do you?"

**R&R**


End file.
